


bend the knee

by days4daisy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Cunnilingus, Extra Treat, F/M, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-03-30 20:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19034806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Once, Daenerys lived on the dream of what she could become with the gods' favor.Now, a god stands within her bedroom. Favor indeed.





	bend the knee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/gifts).



> This takes place post-Thor: Ragnarok for Marvel. For Game of Thrones, I was thinking early season 7, but there are no real spoilers.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this treat, LittleRaven!

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.”

The sound of waves rolling to shore lulls under Missandei’s introduction. With every whisper of water beyond the cliffs, Daenerys takes in the small party before her. It is a weary party; one, though proud, that has seen better days. Many years have passed since she last looked upon the House of Asgard. In her wide-eyed youth, she dusted wonder-filled fingers along its golden palace walls. It bore too many exquisite sights for even her eager eyes to devour.

The once-prince of its mighty people has become its king. He stands forward from the rest, hands clasped before him. Much has changed since Daenerys last laid eyes on Thor. His hair is shorn and his face marred by scars. A gold plate stands where his left eye once was. Still, Thor stands tall and looks Daenerys in the eye.

From Thor's side, his brother pipes in with a casual wave of his hand. “Yes well - you all know who Thor is.” This brings a wry smile to Thor’s lips.

Daenerys rises from her throne - not of the Red Keep, her birthright, but one which nonetheless makes her a queen. She descends the steps, the curious gaze of her own circle on her back. Even her Hand has never made company with gods. It seems Lannister gold can only buy so much.

In the years since their last meeting, Daenerys has grown. Still, Asgard's king dwarfs her. He stands a good head and shoulders above, but he does not revel in this advantage. Not like those men who believe brute force induces fear. Daenerys has known men like this, who would slant their eyes down at her and scoff. Those men are dead now.

The tilt of Thor's head is barely perceptible. His mouth sits soft as he regards her new proximity. Quietly, he waits.

“Your people are welcome here,” Daenerys says, “on two conditions. One, your people will need to work. What accommodations we do not have, they must build. They will feed themselves and clothe themselves.”

Thor nods. “We are a proud people, your grace.” Her title hums low on his lips. “Beyond permission to settle, we need and want no charity.”

“We do have wounded among us, your grace.” This from Heimdall, the Great Eye of Asgard. “Our healers are taxed, and our supplies run short.” Until now, Thor’s watcher stood silent, observing with his golden gaze.

Daenerys looks to him. “What we can spare, we offer. We expect our supplies replenished when your people are able.” Heimdall nods.

The matter settled, Daenerys’ gaze returns to Thor. “There is a second condition.”

Understanding dawns in Thor's single eye.

“And…” Loki leans forward, squinting. “What condition is that exactly?”

Daenerys’ eyes do not leave Thor. After a moment, he gives his answer - a slow but sure nod.

The Valkyrie, leaning against the far wall, crosses her arms. “Mind letting us know what we’ve just agreed to, your majesty?”

“It’s what I've agreed to,” Thor says. His gaze never leaves Daenerys. “Our people are weary from the journey, your grace. And hungry.”

“We’re seeing to that.” Daenerys waves a hand towards Tyrion, whose observant eyes are on the proceedings. “Tyrion, will you walk our guests through preparations for this evening?”

Tyrion's nod says he will. The glint in his eyes says he has seen other things as he leads the way out of the throne hall. “I do hope Asgardians have a favorable opinion on trout.”

Tyrion, Missandei, and Grey Worm exit first. With polite wariness, Loki, Heimdall, and the Valkyrie follow. Daenerys and Thor remain.

“No hesitation,” she notes. “Much has changed since our paths last crossed.”

Thor’s smile is sincere, if burdened. “When our paths last crossed, I was not a king,” he says.

Daenerys allows herself a smile too. “Walk with me,” she says.

They ascend the cavernous walkways of Castle Dragonstone. Their way is lit by candles as the echo of other voices and footsteps grow faint. A glance finds Thor’s head tipped back, his one-eyed gaze taking in his surroundings. “Is it what you expected?” Daenerys asks.

Thor considers with pursed mouth. “It’s quite dark,” he admits. “A fortress, true, well-protected on these cliffs. But the warmth of the island sun cannot reach us in here.”

“Neither can our enemies,” Daenerys says. Thor acknowledges her truth with a nod. But his head is still turned, taking in the wide gap between their heads and the chiseled ceiling. Daenerys speaks against a smile that threatens to show. “I can see why the darkness bothers you. Your kind demands open air. You most of all.”

“The journey here was long,” Thor says, “and dark. Standing on the shore and feeling its breeze was a great lift to our spirits. Mine most of all.”

It is not that Daenerys expects lies from Thor. Even in his arrogant youth, truth grounded his boasts. But Daenerys has come to expect a more guarded response to idle chatter. Wariness would be understandable for one in Thor’s position. He is asking for mercy from a queen who inspires fear.

“You have a spirit in need of lifting,” Daenerys observes.

It is not a question, but Thor still answers, “You have no idea.”

A fire already crackles in the hearth of Daenerys' chamber. Its golden touch warms stone floors and casts a treasured glow across her bedspread.

Thor pauses inside her doorway. He does not shrink from the insinuation of their new location, but he does cast a curious look about. He folds his hands before himself. It is an endearing pose, and Daenerys finds herself smiling again. “Not the sunlight you hoped for,” Daenerys says.

“It’s warm,” Thor replies. By his tone, the fact pleases him. “I can’t imagine your Hand is too pleased with this location. Not in full daylight with so many eyes and ears present.”

“You underestimate his opinion of things,” Daenerys says.

In this private setting, she allows herself to drink in Thor's much changed form. The leaner lines of his body. The dulled red scars above and below his missing eye. And most noticeable - “What became of your hammer? That which carried the power of your house?”

Thor’s gaze remains on the hearth. “Destroyed,” he says.

Daenerys frowns. “And your power?”

Thor smiles over his shoulder. “Alive and well,” he says. Daenerys’ chest tightens at the promise, and at his gaze, no less weighted with only one eye.

She does not see how this is possible. Only the one worthy to hold Thor's great hammer was to own its power. Myths told of its birth within the forge of a great star. But Thor speaks truth to her. She can tell by his single eye, enough depth in it for two.

“And your eye?” Daenerys asks.

Thor’s jaw clenches. “It was my sister,” he says.

Daenerys recalls the brother Loki, of course. The renowned mage had a habit of slipping between shadows when they last met. Still, it was impossible to overlook him. But a sister? Daenerys racks her memories, but she cannot recall this figure.

“Did you kill her?” Daenerys asks.

A brutal question, but Thor does not hesitate to answer. “No, but she is dead anyway.”

He carries many stories inside him. Daenerys can almost see them swimming under his skin. As he can no doubt taste her pain and triumphs. Daenerys was a girl when they last met, a virgin in all matters of life. She was a pawn of her brother, living on the dream of what she could become if the gods favored her.

Now, a god stands within her bedroom. Favor indeed. “My second condition,” Daenerys says.

Thor nods - slow again - and bends to one knee. He is beautiful like this, head raised and solemn eye settled on her. Calm hands rest on his bent knee. Without fear, he kneels to her. Daenerys feels warm in his presence in a way she not known in a long time.

“In exchange for your service, your people now fall under my protection,” Daenerys tells him. “I will guard them as fiercely as I guard my own.”

Thor’s face betrays many emotions. His relief touches the deepest chord. “My queen,” he says and bows his head.

Daenerys lays a gentle hand on him. His hair sifts through her open fingers. “I will protect them,” she says, “I swear it.” She understands the importance of this promise to him. How kingship struck the pride from one of the most prideful men she once knew.

“Thank you, my queen.” He utters the words as if still acquiring their taste. But his voice carries the lightness of a burden lifted. Thor would have knelt to her before his closest advisers if she demanded it. He would have done it before the remaining survivors of Asgard too. Before the Unsullied and the Dothraki. Before the whole of Westeros.

Her fingers slip from Thor’s hair to settle against his bearded jaw. At her insistence, Thor raises his gaze. Daenerys tilts her head. “Am I only to be your queen, God of Thunder?”

“What more can I offer?” Thor asks.

Daenerys believes the question to be in jest at first, a failed attempt at flirtation. But by Thor’s single eye, she grasps his sincerity. He is a king without a kingdom. His riches, his palace, his place in the realms - all are nothing more than memory. Even his pride is gone, bartered for the safety of his people.

Daenerys scrapes the a thumb against his beard. “What more will you take if I allow it?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Thor says, which makes Daenerys frown. “But I can give.”

Some messy new thing toys with Daenerys’ heart. It is a warning to see herself in the gold of Thor's eye plate. But it is exciting too, a thrill through her fingers, to feel danger from a man on his knees.

She grazes the scar under his missing eye. It is soft and plump beneath her thumb. “Give then,” she tells him.

The soft graze of lips against her stomach makes her smile. A laugh threatens to bubble out; the God of Thunder, nuzzling kitten kisses to her belly! She starts to protest.

Daenerys stops at wide hands on her back. Thor’s fingers easily span the small of her spine. Thor’s arms are strong but gentle. His body will swallow her up if she allows it. She will not, not yet, but she does allow herself a step forward. Thor takes a deep breath of her. His hummed appreciation warms her in sweet places. Daenerys’ legs settle against his chest. His hands span her shoulder blades like wings.

Daenerys' fingers close to a fist in his hair. She pulls, halting his mouth’s appreciation of her dress seams. Thor looks up at her, his single eye like the depths of the purest sea. How long has he lived, Daenerys wonders. Hundreds of years? Thousands?

“Show me your power,” she says. A command uttered in a soft tone. The end of the sentence bears the slightest tremor.

Thor’s mouth turns in a quiet smile. His remaining eye begins to glow. Blue tinges its whiteness like the hottest flame. Against her back, Daenerys feels answering sparks. Odd pinpricks, like the numbness of sitting too long. His fingers sweep her hair over her shoulder. It’s then that Daenerys sees threads of lightning on his skin. They weave between his fingers and ignite like toy poppers on his palm.

Gently, Thor sets his hand against her neck. The crackle against her bare skin is like nothing she’s ever felt. It is not the flames that embraced her body in her youth like a swim in summer waters. The violence of lightning skitters like unruly boys across her collarbone. Yet it does no harm. Thor’s power dances on her skin like it belongs with her.

With a tipped head, Thor drags a single lit finger down her front. Under his touch, her dress splits down the center. Her clothes open for him like flowers along the moor, no sound save their puddling on the floor.

Exposed before him, Daenerys better feels the warmth from the hearth. Desire flushes her neck and colors her winter-white breasts. She stands naked within a pool of her ripped clothes, unflinching. Her thighs bear the slightest part, enough for Thor to glimpse the soft line of her lips.

“Join me,” Daenerys says.

Thor nods, but not before a more pronounced tilt of his lips. “Your grace,” he says.

For himself, Thor puts on no fancy display. Thor simply pulls his tunic over his head. He gives the same underwhelming attention to his slacks and boots.

Underwhelmed, though, is not what Daenerys feels.

Thor was no stranger to the gazes of women in his youth. Daenerys, of course, wondered as any of her persuasion would. But those were different times. While Thor’s looks were pleasing, his boasts - tantalizing to some - made Daenerys roll her eyes.

Daenerys wonders if she would have looked upon him then with the favor she feels now. He has the body of a warrior, all strict lines and discipline. But she does not see the bloat he once carried - the over-emphasized muscles of a youth eager to please. Thor’s body now is hard in the way it needs to be. Every bit of strength he wears has its use. On the battlefield, protecting his home and fighting for the livelihood of his people.

Thor’s skin bears the golden touch of the sun, but his cock has already blushed with desire. It is thick and long, surely too much for some. Daenerys wonders how it would feel overwhelming her tongue.

She thinks of other things too - the fold of their arms around each other. The feel of his naked skin pressed to hers. The hard lines of his body a compliment to the softness of her curves. His cock, pressed firmly to her thigh.

Thor denies her these things by sinking back to his knees. When his arms resume their embrace, she comes more willingly. Daenerys fills his space, knees fit to his sides. His fingers curl against her back. She feels a familiar pulse of curiosity. It thrums out the rhythm of desires long untouched by one of Thor’s sex.

But Thor is more than a man, isn’t he?

Thor kisses her stomach and lowers himself to nuzzle the patch of hair blanketing her sex. Daenerys squeezes his hair. Thor hums in reply, his mumbled, “Forgive me, your grace,” not the slightest bit contrite. His tongue, bold as it was in his youth, lines the gentle part of her lips.

Daenerys swallows back a sigh, but she cannot hide the twitch of her knees against Thor’s sides. A flinch is all he needs for encouragement. His large hands cup the inner plain of her thighs. Thor eases them apart, opening her sex. She is pink and already wet. Her desire dampens the soft hair dusting her skin. Thor licks his lips, and Daenerys reads power of a different kind in his single eye. The low-lidded darkness of want, a beautiful and dangerous sight.

Thor flicks this gaze up at her. “May I have you?” he asks.

It seems a conclusion already reached for Daenerys, one that any man would revel in. She wears her desire for him plainly, her thighs opened like a door in greeting.

Still, Thor asks, because he swore her a vow. Because she is his queen, and perhaps she will be more if she chooses. Daenerys smiles. “Go on,” she says.

With her permission, the time of teasing is over. The rasp of his beard marks his arrival between her thighs. He lowers himself for her, both knees to the floor. She feels the flex of his arms around her as his tongue spans her sex. Thor is warm and wet. His hands flatten across the small of her back.

Daenerys opens her legs further, a gasp off her lips at the nuzzle of his beard. Thor's apology is in the tongue which delves between her parted lips. He is eager to taste her, his one remaining eye closed. Thor kisses her with the depth of a lover. His mouth is soft against her most sensitive skin. A hand scales her belly to curl around her breast. His thumb grazes her nipple with a gentle roll. From his fingertip, a single spark ignites.

“Get on the bed,” Daenerys says. It is not gently given direction, but the texture of Daenerys voice makes Thor lift his head with a grin.

Thor rises with the grace befitting of a king. Slowly, he accommodates himself atop Daenerys’ blankets. With a midnight eye, he watches her. He squeezes himself with a hand around his own cock.

“Stop that,” Daenerys says, but a languid groan is already spilling from Thor's lips. It turns to a quiet laugh as Daenerys retrieves a vial of perfumed oil from her bedside.

“Your grace,” Thor acknowledges, grinning up at her. In his fondness, she feels the length of his experience. He has known many but does not boast, save his smile and the hand he keeps around himself. It is a challenge presented, and a thrill shivers through Daenerys’ fingers.

Daenerys kneels on the bed and tosses the vial to his side. At Thor's raised brow, she smiles. “Since you are so eager to perform.”

She is not sure what she expects. Some form of bluster, perhaps. Not the laugh that rumbles from his chest as he uncorked the vial. "I will do my best," Thor says. "For you." It is on the final two words that Daenerys realizes she's misjudged.

Thor holds her gaze as he wraps his hand around himself. His knuckles curl, a bridge formed over the thickness of his sex. His skin is meant to bear oil. Its shine across his member tickles her senses even before his quiet sigh. Thor lies on his side and draws his erection up towards his belly. Once in awhile, his thighs flex, a tremor of muscle that rattles the mattress.

Daenerys drinks in every drag of his fingers. Thor is adept at handling himself. His rhythm is slow but forceful. White tension floods his knuckles. She watches his thumb dip across his slit and come away wet with more than excess oil. Thor's waist rocks forward, and his stomach squeezes tight.

"How many have tasted you?" Daenerys asks.

Thor's words come with a hum behind them. "What does that matter now?"

Daenerys eases two fingers into her mouth-softened cunt. "Wouldn't you like to know how many have tasted me?" she asks.

Thor smiles. "I see no one here but us." His head sinks to the side. "Why should I spare a thought for the absent?"

His hubris expresses itself now in unusual ways. He is so comfortable even in the aftermath of bending the knee. It is the type of bravado Daenerys likes. The type that pulls a groan from Thor when he gifts his cock with a particularly fine touch. Encouraged, Daenerys rolls fingers across the fleshy mound of her clit. Pleasure throbs through her belly. She sighs and does it again. Her fingers grow wet with her own desire.

“You should allow me to do that,” Thor says from the bed. “Your grace-”

“Dany,” Daenerys interrupts. She slides sex-moist fingers up the white field of her stomach. Thor's single eye wanders the path of wetness left behind. “In this room, it’s Dany.”

“Dany,” Thor echoes, voice rich as the most decadent wine. “You should allow me to do that.”

Daenerys cannot find fault with this suggestion, and she joins him on the covers. Thor starts to move, easing his weight over her. Daenerys stops him with a hand to his chest. Thor pauses, a curious look at the fingers drummed against his skin.

Thor must see something, because his puzzlement becomes a twitch of lips. Thor lies on his back, spread out for her, strong and willing.

Daenerys remembers her first love, the dark intrigue in the Khal when she first scaled his body. It is pain Daenerys will carry with her always, like the pain no doubt Thor carries from his many years of life.

His body is no less impressive to scale. Thor feels like iron to her, familiar yet foreign. He is warm like her, with skin like her, yet he is not like her at all.

Thor does a fine job preparing himself. His cock, raised and oiled, is easier to welcome. Still, Daenerys must go slow. She feels the stretch of him testing her mouth-loosened sex. Her own wetness eases the path, as her thighs strain to split around his waist. Large, patient hands settle on her sides. Thor’s breaths are shallow. His thumbs graze the curve of her hips.

Daenerys cannot quite take him all. At the base, she stops, held up on trembling knees. Her body is filled so deep, opened wide and taken so far that she wonders if her sex is enough to contain him. If perhaps he will take her spine next, her stomach. If she will feel him piercing her chest and feel the girth of him thick in her throat. Daenerys’ head swims at the possibility. Her cunt throbs with need as her thighs shiver around his waist.

A hand leaves her side to settle on Daenerys’ belly. Thor watches her with his dark eye. In his guard, she sees herself distorted, a line of whiteness seated above the flames of the hearth. His two fingers ease between her, past her spread lips. Thor finds her clit, raised and red, pulsing against the girth filling her.

With a breathless smile, he plays with her - pinches her between his fingers, rolls her up with a gentle pull. Daenerys makes a sound foreign to her, the whimper of a child. Even her own hair down her back makes her shiver with need.

Slowly, Daenerys rocks her hips. She moves with the practiced ease of a snake, forward and back, lulling yet provoking. Thor likes this, she feels it in the edge of his thumbnail tracing her hip. He is so big inside her. Her cunt aches, pushed further now than the mere throb of her desire. The feel of him spurs new wetness from her sex. She pulses against his fingers, driving herself into them.

Sound chokes in her throat when Thor pushes himself up. Seated beneath her, Thor fills her up beyond what she thought possible. Daenerys' knees hook tight and trembling around his sides. Thor ducks his head to her breasts. His beard rasps against her skin, lips soft against her nipple. His tongue teases her as his arm wraps around her back. Daenerys feels like she’s drowning. He is everywhere, all around her and inside, leaving her only with the desperate gasps on her lips.

She winds her legs around him, ankles crossed low on his back. Further still, he fills her. Her weight settles fully on his lap, his abdomen tense between her thighs. Thor withdraws the hand from between her legs, no longer any room between their bodies for his wrist. His second arm joins the first around her.

Daenerys pulls his hair back, drawing him from her chest. His face takes on an odd twist of daze and hunger. “Dany-”

Daenerys kisses him before he can speak further. His lips are damp from tasting her skin. His arms tighten around her body, and hers lace over his shoulders. Her fingers clench in his hair, holding him to her. They are so close, bodies a tangle, a lack of breath between mouths that flush from the force of their kiss. Daenerys’ breasts press firmly to Thor’s chest. She feels every breath he manages to take. Every inch of her is wrapped in him. Every inch of him belongs to her.

Then, it all breaks. _He_ breaks, a tight sound muffled against her lips. She feels the fierce grasp of his hands. The painful shudder through his thighs. The jut of his hips, with the sudden flash of an early flame. He floods her more deeply than she has ever experienced. Daenerys feels hot all over, dizzy from lack of air.

Thor rises under her abruptly, tightening his arms. Her body presses closer still. His abdomen, still tight and trembling against her stomach. Between her thighs, she feels the nudge of coarse hair and the weight of his pelvis against her. Daenerys does not make a sound, save the quick inhale that catches in her throat. Her heels dig into Thor’s back, her fingers into his scalp. His lips are at her jaw, the shudder of his heavy breaths tickling her skin.

Daenerys feels as if she’s spilling out, the fire of her house turned to water. She is tumbling everywhere, turned to steam on a sweltering summer day. She lowers her head for Thor’s lips. Their kiss is weary but warm.

From the tired glow of release comes an old seed of doubt. Has Daenerys given too much?

She looks at Thor, whose breaths stagger down the curve of her shoulder. His lips graze her collarbone. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he says, “please stop.”

Daenerys cannot help her smile. “Are you giving orders now?”

“I said please,” Thor protests, a laugh under the words. He traces the slender line of her spine. The touch is so gentle, it’s easy to forget the strength that lies beneath it. The power of the storm, strong enough to make civilizations fall.

Carefully, Daenerys untangles herself from him. A soft, satisfied ache lingers between her legs as she settles on unsteady knees beside him. Thor, removed from her, spreads himself across the bed. His low-lidded single eye rests on her. Daenerys feels the ghost of his hands at her back, the warmth of his release filling her so deeply. Her thighs are wet with her orgasm and his.

Detached from him, Daenerys’ mind is free to roam. She thinks of Thor’s travel party reviewing the provisions set aside for this evening. She thinks of how quickly his people will settle among the free land of Dragonstone. What they will need for shelter, for food. The healing materials for the sick and injured. The potential of unrest between Asgardian warriors and the loyal of Daenerys’ ranks. What response will rise from the reveal that Thor has pledged his loyalty to her?

Daenerys thinks of whether Thor’s people will fight for her in the war to come. If Thor himself will join her at the gates of King’s Landing, a growl of thunder proclaiming her victory. Or will it be his victory? Or will it be both of theirs to share as the wheel finally breaks?

Daenerys frowns when Thor kisses the inside of her palm. His sigh moves between her fingers. “Thank you, Dany,” he says.

Something small and scared shivers in her belly. She wants to pull her hand away, banish him from this room, and forget this ever happened. Daenerys has been so careful. Every move she makes has been for the betterment of her people, for her claim to the throne, for the birth of a new world.

In his single eye, she sees the potential to create and to destroy. A god has no claim to the throne of men, but he can ruin her. With a touch, a simple flick of his wrist, he can open the skies and make lightning rain down. Thor can ruin her.

Thor gazes at her for a moment.

Gently, he draws her hand to his face. No, to his missing eye. He guides her thumb to the puffed scar beneath his eye guard. His face bears the flush of his orgasm, and the closed wound tingles warm against her skin. Daenerys scales the scar with an unsteady touch. The mark represents such vulnerability. And faith, to offer this intimacy to her.

“May I rest here until the arrangements are set?” Thor's smile is small and wry. “I should assist my brother and the rest. They are no less weary, as are our people, but there has been little time. There is so much to do, always, so much to decide, so much to feel.” Thor looks up at her. “You must know what that’s like.”

Daenerys has no explanation for the tightness in her throat, or the sudden swell of emotion in her eyes.

Swallowing back tears, she lies beside Thor. Her hand lingers against his face. Sometimes, she strokes the line of his scar. Others, she brushes his hair from his forehead.

Face to face, they look on each other, and Daenerys finds herself unable to think. Bits and pieces of concerns breeze past her mind. This evening’s feast. King’s Landing. The Iron Throne. Thunder and lightning. The broken wheel.

But they are fleeting whispers lost as quickly as they materialize.

This close, she only sees Thor, scarred but satisfied before her. He kisses her, the swell of their lovemaking still sore on their lips. Thor's eye closes, and he sighs. His drowsy fingers toy with the her hair before settling in a loose bridge around her side.

Daenerys could love him if she let herself.

She closes her eyes against the thought and settles against his chest. It is not a decision she needs now. Nor one on accommodations for Thor’s people. Or the plans for King’s Landing. Or whether they will serve root stew before the trout this evening.

These decisions can wait. For a short while, Daenerys allows herself to rest.

*The End*


End file.
